Flying Officer Roger Walker
by blue painted
Summary: Roger and Nancy meet on an airfield "somewhere in England" in 1944. I've never been convinced by the John Nancy connection and this story is perhaps a bit hard on John. I have tried to keep the language true to period, especially the dialogue, please do highlight anywhere that I've failed. There is ONE rude word! Revised for typos and details- thanks for the reviews pointing.


No one could doubt that Flying Officer Roger Walker was a fighter pilot. From the battered service cap worn on the back of his head, with the Mae West life jacket carelessly untied, the top button undone, to the swagger in soft sheepskin flying boots, and most of all the banter, he was fighter pilot from head to toe. Even standing on an airfield near the Kentish coast and poking his fingers through the flak holes in the tail of the Typhoon, he always had a joke to make.

"When is a hole not the whole? When it's just a part of it!"

"Oh knock it off, Hoppy," his companion retorted, "I told you to stay away from that Jerry. And if the Old Man catches you swanning around below the light stuff, well …"

Corporal Gilbert smiled wanly and waited for the officers to stop arsing around. It was all very well for the fly-boys to bring back aircraft with flak damage but it would the riggers and fitters who worked all night to have the kite back on the flight line in the morning.

The comparative peace of the seagulls was broken by the high pitched bark of a Napier Sabre. The three men glanced up automatically, heads turning in unison to the precise point in the sky where the distinctive wing shape of a Tiffy was approaching head on. "I thought we were all back," Carswell called out, "Didn't you say, Gilbert, that …"

"That's what I thought," Roger agreed. He shifted his flying helmet to his other hand and watched the Typhoon turn neatly onto a short crosswind leg and then onto downwind, a very correct and accurate approach.

"Yes sir," the Corporal agreed, feeling considerably happier. "But this looks like a replacement to me, sir, flown straight in I'd say." He nodded firmly. "No markings on her, you see sir, and that new bubble hood."

"I say, that's awfully slow," Carswell said as the aircraft drifted down, undercarriage and full flaps extended, slightly nose high. "Do you think he'll stall and spin in?" he asked, sounding more curious than concerned.

"Oh no, pretty lightly loaded I'd say," Roger said. For some reason aeroplanes made sense to him. It was something in the way that they rode the air. "I think this will do rather nicely, rather nicely indeed in fact."

And so it turned out, with all three wheels touching the thin grass at the same time. There were spurts of dust from the chalky soil and perhaps a suggestion of a skip but that was a very neat three-point landing.

"Tell me, Carsy old son, why is it you bang your kite in so hard?" Walker asked, starting again to stroll towards the distant control hut.

"Because having got the flipping thing down I want it to stay down, that's why."

But Roger wasn't listening. He was watching the pilot of the new arrived Typhoon sliding back the hood, tossing out a small bag, and then clambering swiftly down the side. There was something familiar about the figure and when a ringing laugh drifted across the open grass in response to something an airman had said he was certain. "I say, Carsy, can you cover for me with the spy? Just want a word with that ATA pilot."

The squadron engineering Officer Gourlay was chatting as gallantly as he could to the ferry pilot and seemed to be pleased with himself and his progress but his triumph was short lived.

"Ahoy there, Captain Nancy!"

Nancy Blackett turned on her heel and smiled. "Well, of all the things, Roger, I say, hullo!" she thrust out her hand, conscious that the small, wiry boy of her memory was replaced with this lanky pilot, complete with the creditable beginnings of RAF whiskers. "I say, where can we get tea, I'm parched?"

"The NAAFI van will be around in just a mo'," Peter Gourlay offered, faint but losing his quarry by several lengths. He made once last attempt "You're welcome to our humble abode, and RA3507 will be ready for you soon."

Roger gave the engineering officer the blank stare reserved for penguins, and together Nancy and he sought out the NAFFI van. With tea and wad each they settled together in a quiet corner of the engineering area, looking out across the field.

"This is rather a surprise," Roger ventured. "I mean, seeing you in the air with a whacking great big engine and …" he faltered and took a big sip of tea. "I mean, I didn't know that you flew at all."

Nancy laughed, kicking idly at a patch of coarse grass. "I took it up, oh, back in 'thirty seven …" There was a queer lightness in her tone, almost a forced gaiety.

"Oh yes, rather … of course," Roger fumbled. Nineteen thirty seven had been the year that John had been promoted to sub-lieutenant and the same year that he became engaged to Caroline Osborne. Rather out of his depth, he went on "But do you hear from any of the others? I mean, Dot or Dick, or anyone?"

"Well, not from Dick but I wouldn't expect the professor to be in touch. I know that Dot is writing for the Ministry, although I'm not sure which one, because Peg bumped into her in the Haymarket. And then there's Uncle Jim, mostly organising the dig for victory and Spitfire fund and what have you." Nancy sipped her some more tea, and glanced around. "And do you … I mean … how is everybody?" for once she seemed oddly unwilling to get to the point.

"Well Mave, you know she went back to her old name, Mavis? Well anyway, Mave is doing something arty for the war effort. You know that poster about Britain is Built on Coal? I rather think that's one of hers."

"Good old able-seaman, always painting or drawing something. And what about …" and for an instant it hung there "… what about Susan?"

"Oh, she's married, two babies and all that sort of thing," Roger replied, seizing on the escape offered. "I mean, it is rather hard for her, with Brian away in North Africa and she's looking after Mother as well …"

She glanced sideways at Roger but he was munching his sandwich. She took a breath to speak but then thought better of it.

"What's Peggy doing anyway?" Roger asked into the gap.

"You'll never believe it when I tell you," Nancy said, her old smile lighting up her face.

"Go on," Roger said, bracing himself. He was used to being the youngest and teased and of all the people best able to get a rise out of him Nancy was the best.

"She's producing nude tableaux at the Windmill!"

They both had to laugh, with Roger reflecting privately that Peggy had always been the one to scurry behind a bush when changing in and out of bathers.

"She's not appearing in, of course," Nancy explained, "She took a job as a producer's assistant, he was called up and so it landed in her lap, so to speak."

"Golly!" For a moment Roger was speechless. He and two RAF chums had looked in at the Windmill but it had been such a squeeze they went off in search or other entertainment.

The new Typhoon was being pushed back towards a blast pen. Nancy watched the operation carefully, seeing but not seeing every detail until suddenly, and not quite on purpose, she blurted out "And John, what's he doing now?"

It was like jumping into a cold swimming bath, Roger decided later. The waiting was nerve wracking, the immediate shock took one's breath away and then there was just the ringing in the ears.

"Well, he's not doing awfully well at the moment," Roger explained. "His ship, HMS Gould, went down off Ireland in March. John was one of the lucky ones, only he did get rather mixed up with a lot of bunker oil and lost well … most of the skin of his face and hands … and … well, his hair and …"

Nancy's robust colour had drained away and her mouth hung half open as she stared at Roger. For his part, he found that he couldn't look up, so he spoke to the ground as he went on. "And, well, he's been in hospital in Plymouth pretty much since then …" Roger tried to take a breath, to stop the words pouring out but the stress of the last few weeks was too great to resist, "And even though Deborah did move down to be near him … well ... she's been … … well, carrying on with a brown-job, not even one of ours … … a Canadian … and …"

When Nancy spoke it was very softly but even so she cut easily into Roger's miserable tirade. "Deborah? But what happened to Caroline?"

Roger stopped scuffing the grass with his boot and looked up. "Oh, she chucked him over in thirty nine, just after war was declared. She wanted him to take some admiralty post that her old man could fiddle, but of course John wanted to go to sea … …" He managed a ghastly effort at a chuckle. "It turns out that John isn't terribly clever where the ladies are concerned …"

"Oh, I say, I am most terribly …" he sputtered, hearing what he had just said out loud.

But Nancy merely smiled. "No, he really isn't terribly clever with ladies, or … well … anyone … who isn't a sailor … or … well, I mean …" she laughed shortly. "Certainly not with me, at all events," she finished.

There was a pause during which Nancy watched the ground crew taking the cannon access panels off and opening the other hatches and panels to recharge the oxygen bottle and attend to the radio batteries.

"I'm sorry to hear about Commander Walker," she said, "I was coming to the funeral but …"

Roger nodded. There was still that dull anger, the childish denial that it couldn't happen to Daddy. The whole family had been prepared for war time tragedy but to lose an active officer to a careless driver in the blackout just seemed so beastly unfair. He drained his tea cup, looking around for other safer topics.

"Why did you learn to fly?"

The atmosphere suddenly lightened as they moved onto a neutral topic. "Oh, I learned with a chap, Alan Hanson, on Moths and Moth Majors, flying from Barton. Do you know it?" Nancy replied, perhaps deliberately misunderstanding the question.

"No, I don't think I do."

"Well, it's just outside Manchester, it's an RAF station now of course." She laughed. "It was meant rather as a change, that sort of thing, but it turns out that sailing helps enormously when one's learning to fly." She finished her tea and smiled. "Where did you do your elementary?"

"I was at Rissington, in 'forty one." Roger shook his head. "Of course, I missed The Battle and that rather counts against one."

Further along the flight line a Typhoon roared into life and, for a minute or two, conversation was impossible. By the time the engine was shut down and the silence descended, Nancy had wrestled with unexpected diffidence and asked outright. "So who is Deborah?"

There was an instant when the RAF moustache, the lines around the eyes from squinting into the sun and the traces of the oxygen mask scars seemed to fade from Roger's face, leaving him the slightly woebegone figure of a ship's boy or AB justly reprimanded. Nancy was going to relent, to change the subject with some line or other, but the Roger sitting in front of her had lived life and death over the last few years.

"Well, I rather gather she was there when he, John, was at a bit of a loose end after Caroline. And, well, he … that is … Deborah's brother was on the same ship and they spent Christmas together, and one thing lead to another and …"

"That was Christmas of 'thirty eight?" Nancy asked, remembering a telephone message left for her, a call she had not returned.

Roger calculated. "Yes, that would be it. Of course, I didn't hear about it until afterwards but …" he took a breath. "I knew that Mother, and Titty, were against it. But John, well you know John. Somehow, somewhere, she had got a promise out of him and, well, once he's given the promise you know he won't ever take it back." It was such a relief to be able to tell someone, anyone, everything that he had forgotten who he was talking to. He took a deep breath and plunged on. "Well, Titty of course … Mavis I mean … didn't like her at once. She tried to be nice about it but Deborah is one of those girls you know … lipstick, handbags, shoes … all that rot, and John was being frightfully Senior Service about it all …"

"What's that? The Senior Service?"

Roger grinned. "Oh, you know, terribly Navy, never quite saying what a chap thinks, honouring the traditions of service. We," he added expansively, "don't go in for all that sort of thing. Well, not as much."

Nancy, who had had her fair share of 'Traditions of the Service' when ferrying onto an active RAF base, especially for one of the regular squadrons, grinned in reply but, rather like someone testing a bruise to see how much it hurts, said "And then what? Wedding bells?"

"Yes, but only after John got back from the Med' that was late forty two, I was just being posted Debden, flying Hurris painted black. He didn't even ask me to be best man. And, of course, there had been Daddy …" Roger recalled the quiet little church in Sussex, the bride given away by her uncle as her father was conducting the service: John looking tanned and impassive, rather more like a Navy Lieutenant than a young man getting married. His best man, Lieutenant Brewster, the life and soul of the party.

"Susan was expecting number two and with little Harry she rather took up everyone's attention," Roger went on, and would have surprised his elder sister had she known, "Although she did try to let Deborah have her time in the spotlight."

At this point Leading Aircraftsman Spottiswood came up to them, "Excuse me, ma'am, sir … but 3507 is just about ready for you." He wiped his hands on a wad of cotton waste, a smear of grease on his cheek, looking more like Roger Walker than Flying Officer Walker did himself.

Nancy got to her feet, the chair tipping precariously on two legs for an instant. "Golly, I'd better get weaving. I only got this chit because Second Officer Curtiss was taking the Mosquito." She grabbed her flying gear and set off to follow LAC Spottiswood. "What sort of kite is she? 3507?" she asked as Roger hurried to keep up.

"One of the old 'uns," he replied, catching sight of Richard Carswell waving from the Ops Caravan. He smiled, and for a moment he looked so much like his older brother than Nancy took a breath. "I got my 190 in 3507," he added casually. They shook hands and for a moment Nancy watched the Ships Boy swagger off, carrying helmet swinging from his hand.

Almost an hour later she settled down in the cockpit of RA3507. The big thumb button on the stick that fired the four cannon was twisted to 'safe' and secured with a piece of tape. She waved the chocks away and eased the throttle forward, the heavy fighter rolling slowly forward on the dry soil, and saw him standing by the black and white control van; hands in his pockets, fighter-pilot slouch. So different from his brother. She got her green and pushed the throttle forward a little more. Now she had to concentrate.


End file.
